


Good Omens

by Ragga



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), BAMF Peter, BAMF Stiles, Character Death, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Intrigue, M/M, Murder Husbands, Sort Of, Soulmate Threat Count, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, That's Gerard, There's a reason why that's tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:38:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragga/pseuds/Ragga
Summary: Peter had always been attracted to people more dangerous than he.





	Good Omens

**Author's Note:**

> Welp! What can I say, inspiration struck. Enjoy :)

Peter wasn’t sure why the meter was necessary, only that it was something people saw. The threat level of how much of a danger your soulmate was, was certainly interesting idea if not for the particularities. It wasn’t just a general threat level either; just a threat level to the soulmate themselves.

Naturally a phenomena such as soul meters were romanticized. The media was full of movies where two people saw each other and a big fat zero floated above their head of all the ten numbers it could have been. Oh, just knowing that your soulmate could never hurt you was such a dream! Peter still remembered when Talia was a teen and she giggled over the idea. Even when she met Marcus and saw the two above his head was acceptable by her standards.

After all, your soulmate’s inability to hurt you spelled compatibility, didn’t it?

Peter flitted past the gawking crowd. His ears picked up excited whispers of ‘something happened’ and ‘murder’ but he couldn’t say he was particularly interested. The humankind was full of bad apples. What was one less? His mind drifted, absently glancing around above people’s heads. But if the threat level measured the overall threat instead of just towards soulmates…

Ah, he might have found that more interesting. Instead he was now just waiting for his own turn to meet another one with a floating two staring deeply into his eyes and mooning over him. Or perhaps they wouldn’t. After all, Peter was feeling rather murderous about the idea of a simpering idiot clamouring for his attention. If he was lucky, he would scare away the poor soul with his own number and be left alone to live his life the way he should be.

What was a supernatural being but a tamed beast if their number never went to the double digits?

He had barely managed to cross the street when something flickered alive above him. He lifted his gaze, only to see a black something hover on top of a half-covered head. He blinked. The figure must have felt his eyes on him as he—and Peter could see it was a he—met his gaze with a jaunty little wave and pulled himself up and disappeared on the roof, taking the twin shine of amber with him.

Peter hummed and tilted his head back, glancing at the police cars filling the busy street and officers starting to limit the access of the passers-by with the yellow tape, his interest renewed. There had been something familiar about him; something that tickled Peter’s mind though he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Curious, he thought, and retraced his steps enough to hear the proceedings and quiet murmurs between the officers of law.

Curious indeed.

***

The dead man’s name was Gerard Argent and Peter’s blood cooled in his veins as his focus sharpened and eyes flared ice behind the sunglasses. His skin broke under his suddenly claw-like nails and he wiped the blood with the napkin he liberated from beneath his coffee before any could spill on the ground or, heaven forbid, his clothes.

“Who killed him?” the officer asked. He was young and apparently as stupid as the question he had asked. His partner, older by the sound of her scoff, answered him.

“Don’t listen to the crowds. No one gets murdered with no signs of killing.”

“Poison!” the young lad insisted. “There are so many—”

“Life is not a soap opera, Matthews.” The woman sent him a look of such utter loathing that Peter couldn’t help but admire from his spot at the café. “We’ll send him to be looked over but, mark my words, his heart merely failed him.”

“The witnesses, they claimed something dark—”

“—Appeared out of thin air and murdered him, yes, I heard them as well. You’ll claim magic is real too in the same breath, is that what you mean? A little Game of Thrones leftovers from the weekend?”

The boy gave her a sullen look. The woman didn’t seem to care.

“Go back to the witnesses and see if you can get anything actually useful out of them and come back when you’ve learned the difference between reality and fantasy.”

The young man stormed away, leaving the woman to wave another pair of men to assist her. Peter sipped on his coffee, smiling as he got a look on the horrified expression forever etched onto the face of the former Argent patriarch. His mind wandered back to the black-clad figure and the number over his head.

Peter traced the line of his cup.

He’d have to make a call.

***

Braeden looked just as fabulous as always as she burst in the private room Peter had reserved. He admired how the leather jacket he had designed moulded to her body and the dark tones of dark grey and wine red accentuated her curves. How could she not turn heads wherever she went when Peter had rearranged her wardrobe for her? Why stop at just a pair of Italian leather boots when he could get her to owe him a favour? A favour he was all too happy to reclaim when it best suited him.

“Hit me,” she said, tossing her hair back and lifting said boots on the table, crossing her ankles as she did. The soft clack drew the attention of the nearby waiter but a look from Peter sent him scurrying away with the orders he had already placed.

“I need you to go to Beacon Hills for me.”

Braeden blinked slowly before withdrawing what looked like a pocket flask. Peter tutted even as she sent him a glare.

“Don’t be like that. I already ordered you a bottle of merlot.”

“Vintage?”

“What do you take me for?”

Braeden snorted and defiantly took a sip but put the flask away before anyone else could see it. “Less of an idiot now than before your request. Why would you want to go back to that hellish place?”

“I need you to look for my soulmate there.”

She threw her head back and barked a laugh. “You? _Soulmate_? You haven’t wanted anything to do with them since you found out I was your nephew’s!”

“When he saw you and didn’t realise what it meant, I knew he wasn’t ready for it,” Peter said, shrugging, unashamed. “However, if you were interested _now_ …”

“Oh no, don’t go turning this around, Hale. He can keep his cock sheathed until he’s done with his schooling. I will _not_ wait for him at home like a good little wife,” Braeden snapped.

“And that is why I trust you with this.”

Braeden’s brows rose and she slid her feet from the table. Their dinner arrived with Braeden’s wine and their most expensive whiskey for Peter. He hummed around the smooth taste of it, enjoyed the deep colour he had seen only a day before.

“Just who are they, Hale?”

Peter’s smirk grew. “Gerard Argent’s killer.”

Braeden leaned forward, her dark hair spilling past her shoulders.

“Tell me more.”

***

Thanks to Braeden, he knew where little miss Argent was located when he finally stepped back within the borders of Beacon Hills after so many years. He waited at the bookshop opposite the gym she worked at, the only store that allowed its customers to browse and read on the premise. He positioned his cushioned chair so that he’d have a straight line of sight to the doors across the street but which hid most of him from view. He had the luck that he was already known to the owners if not familiar; after all, there was no person left in Beacon Hills who didn’t know of Talia Hale’s genius of a brother, the one that left the town in pursuit of fame she didn’t approve of. The one who made a name for himself but would never amount to as much as the perfect Talia in the eyes of—

Most of the time the comparison chafed and reminded Peter of the unpleasantness of growing up under ill-fitting expectations. The rest, however unintentional, Peter was glad to take an advantage of.

His half-hearted focus on the adventures of polar opposites managing their way through the apocalypse was broken when a man—a boy just barely past his teens really—slumped on the armchair opposite him. He was dressed in faded plaid and jeans that had seen better days; typical teen fashion if Peter had seen any. What garnered his attention was the almost too bright eyes, familiar in their glow, and the slight circles around them.

As well as the number hanging above the messy brown curls.

“Touch her and I’ll kill you,” his soulmate said. His heart didn’t stutter as he threw the words at Peter. Peter hummed, placing the book down as gently as masterpieces should be treated.

“Pleasure to meet you too, Mieczysław.”

The amber in the eyes heightened as they narrowed. “Hale,” he snapped back. “What do you want?”

Peter crossed his legs and leaned back, the epitome of careless grace. “Why,” he said. “Wouldn’t anyone want to learn more about the other half of their soul?”

Stilinski snorted. “When I hear anything worth listening to from a Hale is the moment, my mom comes back to life. How did you find me?”

Which, Peter translated, meant never, based on the profile he had made for his little mate. Five years was a long time to stew in grief, especially when— “Such animosity. Tell me, what has my _dear_ sister done to earn such ire?”

Stilinski’s eyes flickered and the lines on his face deepened. “What hasn’t she?” he copied Peter, answering without answering. Peter tutted.

“You should know the past five years I’ve come home less times than that and lingered rarely past a day each visit. You are welcome to futilely blame me for the blunders of my family but unless you want to talk about your little friend over there…”

The number above Stilinski’s head wavered and then simmered. Peter hummed, his grin revealing his slightly lengthened canines.

“Fine,” Stilinski said. He slouched down and grabbed a bottle of Coke from his ratty little bag. He took a sip before throwing it back in again. “Fine. Let’s talk then. Where have you been these past years?”

“Away from here, conquering the world of fashion.”

Stilinski cocked his head. “Wouldn’t that make you a target?”

Peter picked on the invisible flint of the sleeve of his designer, _self_ -designed, shirt. He would never make clothes he wouldn’t wear himself. That was half the reason he even went for fashion; no one ever really made clothes worth of his attention. “Why do you think so few Argents are alive these days?”

Why do you think Gerard was in New York the day he was, he left unsaid but he was certain it was picked up on nonetheless. With how Stilinski narrowed his eyes, the message was received.

“Cute,” he said. “Though how much trust can be placed on the left hand that leaves his pack to handle the threats themselves is questionable at best.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust my pack to handle themselves?” Peter threw back at him. Stilinski tilted his head.

“Am I?”

“Anyone else might take that as an insult.”

“Are you?” Stilinski parroted. Peter huffed, a smile curling on his lips.

“No. I guess it’s you and whoever belongs in your little group with little miss Argent are the ones who’ve taken up my mantle.”

“You could say that,” Stilinski answered dryly. “And I guess I can push the blame on your absence for the rogue attack that caused all that misery on us.”

Peter suddenly leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Talia let a rogue alpha in her territory? Are the wards that off?”

Stilinski blinked. “There are supposed to be wards?”

Peter cursed lowly underneath his breath. He had known Talia’s choice as an emissary had been an awful one but to let them down this much? It was a wonder the Hale’s reputation hadn’t gone down the drain the same way.

Unless—

“Have you been taking down the threats yourself?” he asked, play forgotten in the way of business. He didn’t even wait for Stilinski to answer; with the recent revelations, he knew the answer to that already. “Talia’s unaware of the inner workings of the area, isn’t she.”

Stilinski grimaced. “You could say that,” he repeated. “Unless you say regular visitations by murderous supernatural creatures and hunters are a standard. Just two months ago a family of wendigos tried to settle in to enjoy the open buffet.”

Peter growled but Stilinski didn’t seem worried as if he knew it wasn’t directed at him. “No wonder you were after Argent,” he said, confirming his suspicions. “Did she—?”

“— _He_ tried to murder my best friend for dallying with his granddaughter?” Stilinski answered. His stance was tense as he played with the string of his backpack. “Take a guess.”

Peter glanced at the number above Stilinski’s head and backed down. He didn’t need a verbal confirmation anyway. “Bitten?”

“Yeah. True Alpha, or so Deaton says.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. “Deaton,” he said, inflection lost from his voice. Stilinski looked curious and nodded. “The Hale pack emissary.”

“ _He’s_ —?” Stilinski’s eyes widened before he snorted and burst into a laugh. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with your pack?”

Peter rubbed the space between his eyes. His head throbbed with the bloodlust he felt. “That’s what I would like to know.” He thanked the small mercies that Derek and Laura lived in New York with him and had been since the attempt Kate Argent had made at his nephew. Poor boy would probably never willingly set foot in Beacon Hills, especially after Peter would tell him how the territory had been left to the wolves. Last he had heard from Cora she had also gotten into university on the east coast. He’d have to call and tell her not to visit her mother when she got back from Europe before he had managed to fix everything she had mismanaged in his absence.

He had been away for far too long. Now he had to wonder if there had been ulterior motives behind that as well. Slightly bitter, he realised he’d have to search inside himself if he truly had decided to leave by his own account… or if he had been helped.

Then something Stilinski said registered in his mind and he quickly met the amused gaze directed at him. “Did you just say your friend is a ‘True Alpha’?”

Stilinski nodded. “That’s what Deaton called it.”

“You do know there’s no such thing.” When Stilinski frowned, Peter generously added, “All alphas are natural alphas, whether they get their spark from killing another, have it handed down, or made completely anew. With how much culling the hunters have tried to push at us, don’t you think we’d have died out long before if nature wouldn’t bestow its gift upon us when needed?”

Stilinski was quiet as he took in his words. “That… makes sense,” he admitted, brows knitted together. He licked his lips in thought and Peter’s eyes were drawn on the parted lips. “I never liked the explanation anyway. What is an alpha that doesn’t kill to protect his people and territory?”

“A nightmare,” Peter said. And the only one piece that added to the puzzle that plagued Peter’s ancestral lands was, “Deaton.”

The circles around Stilinski’s eyes seemed to darken. In the lighting his skin looked paler than when he first arrived. “’Be the spark’, huh…” he murmured to himself. “’Change the host’. What are you playing at?”

Curiosity gnawed Peter’s insides—Braeden was good, but even she had limits—but he refused to appease the hunger. There would be time for that. “What do you say,” he started, Stilinski’s attention snapping back on him. “If we formed, ah, a little truce, just between us?”

Stilinski’s brows lifted before they quickly dropped back down to a more neutral look. “A truce, you say?”

“We have clearly been duped by the same person for reasons neither of us can decipher right now. If we worked together, however…”

Stilinski eyed him, his mouth drawn into a straight line. “And what would stop you from taking advantage of said _truce_?”

The emphasis he put on the word spoke of shattered trust digging into skin and the scars left behind. Peter shrugged, smile playing on his lips. “Nothing I can convince you of,” he admitted freely. “However, I can sweeten the deal just a little.”

The slightest shift in Stilinski’s stance revealed the interest his expression hid expertly. “Oh?”

Peter leaned forward and gambled, “I know where Kate Argent is.”

Stilinski froze, his fingers whitening around the string. The air around them electrified instantly. Peter felt triumph flash through him and victory had never tasted so sweet.

He had him.

The door to the bookstore chimed.

“Stiles?” a young woman’s voice called. Peter could hear her footsteps as she entered the small space. “I got your text. Are you here?”

Stilinski’s reverie broke. “Just a moment, Ally! I think I found something cool!” He looked around to see a book he could swipe when Peter slid over the one he had been reading himself. He grinned, just a little, seeing Stilinski’s hand over it suspiciously when Peter didn’t move his.

“Truce?” Peter said, his teeth lengthening in his closed mouth, knowing what the answer was without it even being voiced.

He had him.                                           

“Stiles?” Allison Argent called again. Stilinski’s hand ghosted over Peter’s as he picked the book up and Peter traced the veins of his wrist with his eyes before meeting Stilinski’s wary gaze again.

“Coming, Ally!” With one last look Stilinski was out of Peter’s sight again, greeting little miss Argent enthusiastically and going by sound to the cashier to pay for Peter’s book. He watched out of the window when the door chimed and a young couple walked out, looking more like siblings than anything else to anyone with eyes as sharp as Peter’s.

Their eyes met again for barely a fraction of a second, glowing amber meeting shining ice, before the colours dulled and returned to their previous state.

Peter grinned, his teeth bloody where he had bit through the insides of his mouth.

_He had him._

***

That evening his phone beeped with a message from an unknown number. It only read “eleven”.

Satisfied, Peter tilted his head back and laughed, anticipation growing inside him into something akin to burning hot desire. He would very much enjoy whatever was coming.

After all, he had always been attracted to people more dangerous than he.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought about this if you have the time to spare :)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://hali-ra.tumblr.com/).


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